Heartlines
by MadameObsessor
Summary: Maybe Sam isn't as 'fine' as he thought.


"**And the heart is hard to translate  
>It has a language of its own<br>It talks in tongues and quiet sighs,  
>And prayers and proclamations<br>In the grand days of ****great men**** and the smallest of gestures  
>And short shallow gasps"<strong>

11:36 pm. That's what Sam's watch spat at him last time he checked. Then again, how can he be sure? Nothing seems to make sense, and he doesn't trust himself enough to believe it or any other jumbled thought which sneaks its way in for that matter.

These trials may have started out affecting him physically, but it's gotten to the point where his judgment is changing as well. It's getting mangled up, chewed to pieces and thrown against a wall in the house of an increasingly unstable mind. Of course, that begs the question of whether he was actually stable to begin with.

Just take all the crap that has happened to them; every argument, every hunt, every knife twisting in an emotional wound, and add in a task that requires more strength than he might have. And he can't tell Dean this. Can't let on that his knees are trembling with the weight on his shoulders, it wouldn't be in his nature.

So he'll trudge through it with a mask that has been perfected over the years. One that doesn't allow for his worry to show, and instead molds it into denial. Fortunately, they both have grown used to assuming they're alright. Unfortunately, they both have grown used to assuming they're alright. Until the last possible second, a litany of encouragement will pour from them. Except this is different.

It started with his hands. Suddenly they began to betray him, and it's entirely his fault. A few months ago, maybe even a few weeks he could have shot someone right between the eyes from across a room. Now, he can barely hold the gun itself.

An indoor range the bunker holds mocks and teases him. _Look at how weak you've gotten, how pathetic. _Whispers dance around his ear whenever he comes close to setting a target up, always causing Sam to snatch it back out of shame. Following this he will attempt to ignore the fact that those hands are attached to him. It only hurts more to know they will be trembling.

Dean knows it too, which is why Sam is basically on lock down. If Dean had the choice he would probably keep him here for the rest of their lives. Sam almost wants to laugh at the idea of hiding if laughing didn't turn to coughing and eventually blood spewing from his throat.

He hasn't told his brother the extent of that situation, and he won't. He will bottle it alongside the other hundreds of Sam Winchester problems he doesn't talk about; hope it stays under control. But who is he kidding? Control left the moment hell hound guts spilled onto him.

Chills wash through him, resulting in the navy colored blanket getting pulled tighter around his shoulders. Sam's gaze swept over the plethora of books on the table before him. He had tried to work as per usual, but he's ceased without noticing.

Then, like a switch was hit, sounds rushed in. A clock ticking away his suffering, some sort of dripping far off, clicking. Wait, clicking? No, that's not clicking that's-

"Sammy!"

Dean's been snapping his fingers in Sam's face for God knows how long; one minute, five? Wide green eyes lock with his, searching for any kind of acknowledgment or recognition. "You with me?"

Sam can't think of what to say, so he just nods, embarrassed.

"You were starting to freak me out." Understatement.

"I'm fine." Understatement.

Sam grinds the palms of his hands against his shut eyelids, and it provides brief comfort. He needs a bed. A solid place to lie for an eternity. He needs to leave an impression of his body in the sheets, crumple his pillow from constantly fluffing it. He needs to wake at an early hour, glance at the time and get comfortable again. He needs a cocoon of warmth and safety. He needs to feel at peace.

While this train of thought went by, Dean had continued to lean on the edge of table, rambling on about the latest something or another. He must have fallen asleep, because there was that snapping again.

Quickly sitting up straighter in his chair, it takes a single look for Sam to understand that he failed the test and inevitably the two of them were going to address it. And in a normal circumstance, he'd already be forming an argument describing his health being in the best shape.

There was silence. Neither could find correct words to be spoken anymore, no excuses.

"I get it." Dean's voice was surprisingly calm. In a distant land, it would have made a good lullaby. "You gotta field this on your own. It's all your responsibility, right?" A long, painful pause injects into the conversation. "You might want that to happen, but I'm not letting it."

Sam can't bring himself to respond, he's too exhausted. If he did, he'd tell him that he doesn't get it. He never will. The trials are meant for one person, not one person and their hardheaded brother. Tilting his chin in a defensive manner, the expression he sees makes him wonder if he actually talked aloud.

Dean exhales in irritation. "If you're really doing this, I'm helping you."

His confusion must have appeared evident, because then Sam was being yanked to stand. With the support of an arm around his waist, they slowly shuffled down a hallway nearby. It isn't until a bed comes into view that he realizes he will finally get to crash, literally and figuratively. That alone gives him the energy to carry on.

As his legs hit the corner of the mattress Dean guides him beneath the covers, swallowing the comments that threaten to leak out. He manages to get Sam completely settled, and finishes it by grabbing a chair and plopping down on it next to him. This is his room anyways.

"Sleep tight, Sammy."

They won't know what happens at the end of all this or where they will be, but if they have each other, they have a chance.


End file.
